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COFVRIGHT DEPOSIT 



PEBBLES FROM THE 
SHORE 



By 
E. A. KIMBALL 




»",ARTletVeRITATI 



m 



BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 

1904 



Copyright 1904 by E. A. KiMBALL 



All rights reserved 



UBRAHYcf CON(iKtSS 
Two Copies Hecwveu 

DEC 19 1^04 

-Copyiitnt tntry 

CUSS CI XXc, Noi 
//? ^3 %^ 

COPY 6. 






PRINTED AT 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

BOSTON, U. S. A. 



CONTENTS 

Rye Harbor 

A Pantomime 

An Epidemic 

Sunflowers 

The Hedge . 

A Little Gift 

After the Burial 

Washed Ashore 

A Little Girl's Birthday 

Friendship or Love 

Lines to Rev. T. R. Peed 

Lines for a Golden Wedding 

The Harvest 

Rocks Bridge 

Lines in Memory of W. H. L. 

An Autumn Day . 

Silver Bells 

Lines in Memory of L. M. D. 

In Haying Time . 

At the Grave of Whittier 

Molly 

On the Way 



Page 

5 
8 

lO 
12 

13 

15 
i6 

17 

20 
21 

24 
25 

26 
28 
32 

34 
36 
38 

39 
40 

42 

47 



Page 

Old-TixMe Roses . . . .48 

Rocks Village and Her Church . 49 

To Miss R. I. Davis . . .54 

A Retrospect . . . . t;^ 

Hymn . . . . . ^^8 



RYE HARBOR 

Under the bridge, by the old tide-mill, 
Through leaky flood-gate, fountain and rill 
Bubble and gush into pearly spray, 
Fall into foam-flakes that float away ; 
By wheel and posts they silently glide, 
And swiftly waltz on the ebbing tide, 
To the merry chime of tinkling rill, 
And steady whir of the busy mill. 

A rickety, old, unpainted mill, 
With broken window and rotting sill; 
With many a crevice long and wide ; 
For years has it weathered wind and tide, 
And, faithfully, still it works away 
Through storm and sunshine, day after day. 
Seaweed and grass from its braces swing. 
And moss and shells to the flood-gate cling. 

South of the bridge, on a Sabbath day 
Long years ago, where the minnows play 
In the shallows, little True was found ; 
Catching the minnows ? No, he was drowned. 
His parents, driving from church, glanced down 
At something bright ; 'twas his little gown, — 
And the child was dead. Oh, baby True, 
Does the old mill still remember you? 

The green marsh down to the water slopes, 
And birds alight on the schooner's ropes. 
That so calmly leans on her larboard side, 
As down the channel recedes the tide ; 
And it leaves the wharf all grim and grey, 
With its chains, and ropes, and wisps of hay. 
The foam-flakes fly as the south wind blows, 
Where the channel bends and wider grows. 



Oh, clear and blue is the water deep, 
The shore beyond is rocky and steep, 
And drifting over sea-meadows green 
Are feathery clouds, blue sky between; 
And the lazy billows fall and rise 
Where the " Mary J." at anchor lies ; 
As she slowly rocks, the breezes play 
With her ropes and sails, that gently sway. 

The fisherman rows his little boat, 

A dozen others about it float; 

And gracefully gliding, fast and free 

The white sloop Dolphin sails out to sea ; 

The wavelets behind her flash and gleam. 

Each kissed by a brilliant silver beam ; 

So faces with holy glory shine. 

When the heart is touched by rays divine. 

Oh, smoothly the water flows today. 
And softly the ripples curve and play ; 
And tiny shells in the sunshine bleach 
Along the line of the southern beach. 
O'er fish-house chimney the smoke curls high, 
And fish are laid on the flakes to dry. 
And, just beyond, the first ray of morn 
Is caught by the captain's rustling corn. 

Not always so calm ! That jagged wall 
Has oft heard the frightened sailor's call ; 
The fisherman's cry on storm-tossed deck, 
" God guide my vessel by Ragged Neck." 
And Little Neck has a tale to tell 
Of whizzing bullets, and what befell 
The British seamen who tried to land ; 
Sent back by an unseen, plucky band. 



Ye lonely graves b}^ the grieving sea, 

Sad, sad is the tale ye tell to me ! 

A merciless sea, a rocky isle, 

A boat to the mainland sent; meanwhile 

A woman's agony. Hard her fate ! 

When the wild storm ceased help came too late ; 

And here for years she has lain at rest, 

With her infant on her lifeless breast. 

To me, her sister oft with tears 

The story told ; but how few the years 

Ere she was snatched by a tidal wave 

From the island Chair, and found a grave 

'Neath seething billows. Oh, well that we 

Through fogs of the future can not see; 

That we know not th' hour when death shall come 

Or th' way that leads to our final home. 

The tide comes in, and the tide goes out, 
And the grey gulls skim and wheel about; 
The sunshine ever follows the rain ; 
The seaweed drifts, but the rocks remain. 
We drift away, old age and youth, 
Unmoved, unshaken, still stands the truth. 
But what is truth and where may it be? 
Said Christ the Lord, " Oh, come unto me." 

" For I am the Truth and living way 

To endless bliss in eternal day. 

The billows may break against this rock, 

Forever will it withstand the shock. 

You blindly drift for a little space. 

And the hail beats on your upturned face, 

But trust in me, I will safely guide 

Your bark, thoiigh treacherous be the tide." 



Sunbeams glinting- on the sea, 
Diamonds flashing brilHantly; 
Tranquil billows come and go ; 
Hear their music sweet and low, 
Like a mother's lullaby, 
When she holds the baby nigh ; 
Soothing music soft and sweet, 
Sings she, and does oft repeat 
Lullaby, the low refrain. 
Lullaby, the pleasing strain, 
Till the weary eyelids close. 
Till the baby finds repose. 
So the quiet summer sea 
Sings a soothing song to me. 
Hear the cadence soft and low. 
As the billows come and go; 
And the tender words repeat, 
'' Sweet is life and love is sweet. 
Sweet is love, and life is fleet. 
Let it be with love replete." 



A PANTOMIME 

A hard and level beach. 

Stretching away and away. 
Far as the eye can reach. 

Waves, so joyful and gay 

One may almost hear them shout 
Like children at their play, 

Quickly run in and out 

Over the glistening sand, 
Tumble and toss about. 



Foam white as white can be; 

A shimmering, soft moonhght, 
A sparkling, quiv'ring sea. 

A seat that holds just two ; 

Two lovers there rest awhile; 
Dark eyes and eyes of blue. 

A cloud its shadow throws, — 

Her head on his shoulder rests. 
(Perhaps they kiss, who knows?) 

Down falls a long fair braid, 

And he from his pocket takes 
A knife, with dull old blade. 

He saws a little while ; 

In his eyes a tender light, 
She looks on with a smile. 

A little glossy tress 

In his pocket-book is laid; 
A lingering caress — 

The wavelets dance and play 
Anear to the lovers' bench ; 
They rise and walk away. 

SEQUEL 

He flirts with all the women he can ; 
She's glad she married a different man. 



AN EPIDEMIC 

I have heard how yellow fever takes its many 
victims off; 

I have had the mmnps and measles, scarlet fever, 
whooping cough, 

I can read about the cholera, the very Asiatic, 

Sweeping through Italian cities in a way too sys- 
tematic. 

But of all the epidemics I have ever heard or read, 
The one that stays the longest, and has had the 

greatest spread. 
That hits the high-toned lady and the country 

lassie sweet. 
That follows to the seashore for the dude and fine 

aesthete. 

The gentleman of leisure and the darky with his 

hod, 
Taking victims by the thousands, — is the rage 

for golden rod ! 
'Tis the northern yellow fever that for years has 

had its sway; 
The physicians do not check it; they, too, fall an 

easy prey. 

There's my daughter, Ann Belinda, just at home 

from Hampton Beach, 
And her cousin, Jane Jemima, gather all within 

their reach ; 
Daily bring it home by armfuls, so a stock on 

hand to keep. 
Yet they care no more for flowers than a couple 

of old sheep. 



lO 



Yes, 'tis pretty by the roadside, and I'll own it's 
hard to beat 

On the outside of your dwellings, when you dec- 
orate your street; 

And within doors, used with caution, if I rightly 
recollect. 

Sprinkled in with other blossoms, used to give a 
fine effect. 

Poets, too, have loved the flower, and have writ- 
ten in its praise 

Tender words. I used to read them, but now, 
since this yellow craze. 

Though delightful be the poem, this the vision I 
behold : 

Ann Belinda, Jane Jemima, lugging home the 
poet's gold. 

I can see nine hundred women passing through 

a country road. 
Bearing golden rod enough to make a decent- 
sized carload ; 
I behold a vast procession moving down a city 

street. 
And can see the fever symptoms in two-thirds of 

all I meet. 

Oh ! of all the epidemics I have ever heard or 

read. 
It is this that stays the longest and has had the 

greatest spread. 
For it drives o'er city pavements and it roams 

o'er country sod, ■ — 
The northern yellow fever is the rage for golden 

rod. 



II 



SUNFLOWERS 



TO MRS. M. F. T. 



Sunflowers ? Do I like them ? Why, yes, some- 
what, in their place ; 

Though I seldom care to pluck them, — should 
not put one in a vase 

With a pansy, or a rosebud; but I like to see 
them grow 

Where our mothers and grandmothers used to 
plant them years ago. 

Oh ! the yellow of the sunset and the glory of the 
morn. 

In the wide, old-fashioned gardens, or beside the 
rows of corn ; 

With the lilac and the dahlia, with the southern- 
wood and balm. 

How contentedly they blossom, always dignified 
and calm. 

Were I king — to deck my palace for a coming 

Sheba's queen. 
Brightest sunflowers should be mingled with the 

deepest evergreen; 
They should blaze in stars and crescents, they 

should loop the flags on high, 
And upon the lofty arches, yellow bloom should 

meet the eye. 

Were I king, — I should be tempted then to pub- 
lish this decree: 

All my subjects wearing sunflowers when they 
come the queen to see, 

Man or woman, shall be banished to the southern 
frigid zone. 

There to raise a ton of sunflowers, and to wear 
them, when they're grown. 

12 



THE HEDGE 

" Once you said naught would you ever 

That could separate us do. 
Ah, how long did you remember? 

Who was false, and who was true ? 
Whose the hand that sowed the thistles 

That have pricked both you and me ? 
Tall and thick the hedge between us, 

O'er it we can scarcely see. 

" Forward, onward, we go pacing, 

You without and I within ; 
Soon the hedge might be demolished 

If but either would begin. 
Now and then our hands reach through it, 

Clasp a moment, then unloose; 
But to break it and pass over. 

Both are stubborn, and refuse. 

" Hoping, longing to be nearer, 

Daring not to make it known, 
Fearing each to make concession, 

Onward each must go alone. 
Are you cruel? Am I hateful? 

Does it please us to offend ? 
I am sorry you dislike me ; 

I have meant to be your friend. 

" Oh, this hedge ! These stinging thistles ! 

Rank and noxious have they grown ; 
Tiny seeds, along our pathway, 

Carelessly, by us, were strown ; 
Hasty words and looks impatient, 

Bitter thoughts, deep-rooted grew, 
Till about us, thick upspringing, 

Came the thistles into view. 



With our feet we might have crushed them, 

With our hands have pulled them out ; 
But the faith we should have cherished 

Withered, and gave place to doubt. 
So the thistles grew and flourished 

And we farther walked apart ; 
We have known the hedge w^as growing, 

Seen it, each with aching heart. 

You'll not ask me to break through it 

Lest I deem you quite too fond ! 
Have I wronged you ? Then forgive me. 

For the way is dark beyond. 
We can not go on forever ; — 

I should rather be at peace. 
Shall we let the hedge grow thicker 

Till our hearts their throbbings cease ? 

You do trust me? Have forgiven 

All the past and all its pain ? 
Then we'll walk henceforth together. 

We will quarrel ne'er again. 
So the fence at last is broken ; — 

Ere the thistles go to seed. 
We will mow them, we will burn them, 

And uproot each baneful weed. 

But the past we must remember, 

Lest some angry words we say ; 
Lest again we find the thistles 

Thickly growing by the way ; 
Lest divided death should find us ; 

Lest, beside life's closing gate. 
One should cry, in bitter sorrow, 

For forgiveness all too late." 



14 



A LITTLE GIFT 

These fragrant violets I send 

To her who loved all flowers, my friend. 

But, oh, she lies so still and cold. 
She cannot take them, as of old. 

Her eyes are closed, her lips are dumb. 
Her slender hands are stiff and numb. 

No smile can o'er her features play ; 
She will not heed my flowers, today. 

But yet, with tender love, I send 
This little token to my friend; 

A token of the happy past. 

And of her future grand and vast. 

She is not here ; gone on before. 
She waits upon the Heav'nly shore. 

We hold the past ; how sweet and dear ! 
Her influence lives; she hovers near. 

We pray for strength ; we wonder why 
These things are so ; God hears our cry ; 

He gives us comfort for our pain : 
Though flowers die, thev bloom again. 



15 



AFTER THE BURIAL 

They have laid the mortal part 
Of my friend in the grave to rest ; 

It is cold, and the storm beats down 
On the sod above her breast. 

Two graves ! a mother and child ; 

Together in silence they lie ; 
Two graves, and a desolate home, 

And the wailing winds go by. 

But the bitter wind will cease. 
For the winter will soon be o'er ; 

The spring will return, but alas ! 
She will come to us no more. 

We may call, but all in vain; 

Neither love nor grief can avail. 
E'en the cry of the motherless babe 

To bring her will not prevail. 

A foe hard to face is Death; 

Hard is it from dear ones to part. 
Yet God in his infinite love 

Can strengthen the fainting heart. 

Two precious treasures Fie gives: 
Hope, memory — priceless are they ; 

For Memory holds up the past, 

While heav'nward Hope points the way. 



i6 



WASHED ASHORE 

(Aunt Polly Reuienibers.) 

" Over the ledges by the stream 

Winding- along, the dead were borne 
From the sea, by marsh and field. 

And only strangers for them to mourn. 

" Over the bridge, and up the hill, 

Slowly, slowly they bore the dead ; 
Up the hill, then paused to rest, 

For the men were tired, you see," she said. 

" The men were tired, and laid them down, 
Two dead bodies on boards," she said; 

" Side by side upon the ground, — 

And out I ran to look at the dead. 

" I was a child, a little child ; 

Em ninety-one — 'twas long ago ! 
There they lay. The sight I saw 

Will follow me to my grave, I know. 

" Bruised, mangled, — two dead men, — 
Pieces of garments they had worn. 
Seaweed, shells, and tangled hair. 

And hands with the flesh all cut and torn. 

" Two pine coffins and one wide grave 
Enclosed the dead and hid from view, 
Hid from sight, and none to weep, 
And only strangers to bid adieu. 

" Two men once from the city came 
And heard what people had to say ; 
Came and went and told no tales. 
But the dead were taken not away. 



17 



" And who they were no one can tell ; 
The streets you may go up and down, 
Talk and wonder, — no one knows. 
For I am the oldest of the town. 

" Yes, in the old house there I Hved, 

The house where I was born, you see. 
Built when George the third was king. 
In old colonial days," said she. 

'' Still stands the house where I was born ; 
The stream winds eastward to the sea. 
Side by side the nameless dead 

With friends of my childhood rest," said she. 

" Rocks and ledges the lot surround ; 
Rocks with lichens and mosses green ; 
Sea-wall east and east the sea. 

And a marsh with waters bright between. 

" Two graves you think there are ? Why, yes. 
Another body came ashore 
From a wreck, and I was then 
A girl of a dozen years or more. 

" A vessel bearing flour and corn 
Was by the mighty breakers tost 
On the ledge ; but only one 

Of the men aboard of her was lost. 

" Wrecked on Rye Ledge, that like a snake, 
A serpent black, crawls out to sea. 
Waits for victims passing by, — 

It was there he lost his life," said she. 

" And so they laid him down to rest 
Beside the other two," said she ; 

" Long forgotten have they lain 

Anear to the cold, relentless sea." 

i8 



That is her story of the graves ; 

The nameless graves beside the sea. 
JMonths and years, I know not why. 

Have the "-raves and sailors haunted me. 



fe' 



In wakeful nights, when children fret, 
When I am tired and fain would sleep. 

Why must I beside them stand ? 

Must I hear the thunder of the deep ? 

Must see the bodies on the beach, 
And solemn faces look at me, — 

Wives and children, wistful, sad, 
Look o'er a wild, tumultuous sea. 

A little child, somewhat I heard 

About the dead men washed ashore; 

Years forgotten, back it came 

To haunt and trouble me evermore. 

But now I hope they'll let me rest. 
For I have told all that I know ; 

All I know about the dead 

Who were washed ashore so long ago. 



19 



A LITTLE GIRL'S BIRTHDAY 

I heard a bluebird singing, 

And I thought I heard him say, 
" Pleasant morning ! pleasant morning 
For a little girl's birthday. 

'* I'll sing my sweetest carol, 

And my springtime roundelay, 
In the merry, merry morning 
Of a little girl's birthday. 

" I'll sing about the pussies. 
And they all are silver-gray 
On the willow, on the willow, 
For a little girl's birthday. 

" I'll sing about the robin. 
And he is not far away ; 
He is coming, he is coming. 
For a little girl's birthday." 

I hear the bluebird singing. 
And I'm sure I hear him say, 
" Happy greeting ! happy greeting 
For a little girl's birthday." 



20 



FRIENDSHIP OR LOVE 

Where do love and friendship meet? 

What is the dividing Hne ? 
I have sought and found it not 

In this heart of mine. 

Where do love and friendship meet? 

Is there a dividing line ? 
Is it love or friendship fills 

All this heart of mine ? 



" Each rose has its thorn," we are told, 

The saying we know to be true. 
" The sweeter the rose, the sharper the thorn," 

I have found it so, haven't you? 

Yes, roses ; but not they alone. 

, Why, look at this blossom, this bell. 
Clear white, swaying now in a passing breeze. 

And what does its golden tongue tell? 

It used to be ringing of peace ; 

*' Have faith in my love," once it said ; 
But it rings out now, " Beware whom you trust," 

It tolls for a faith that is dead. 

A faith that is dead, did I say? 

I wonder if Faith ever dies ; 
She rises again and again from the dust 

Where wounded and bleeding she lies. 

But that is the thorn of the bell, 

Its touch causes hot tears to start. 
Yes, roses have thorns, but not they alone, 

Some others can pierce to the heart. 



21 



His favorite flower, you see; 

How often these blossoms I wore, 
But the long summer days go by, go by, 

And he comes to me now no more. 

I then thought he loved me, but I 
Was foolish to trust him, no doubt ; 

That roses have thorns, but not they alone 
I wonder if he has found out. 



This morning, a copy I found 

Of Ingelow, down by the mill ; 
He had laid it there a little before, — 

And I think that he loves me still. 

" Divided " — yes, there was his mark ; 

So that was the poem he read ! 
The clouds all at once were gone from the sky, 

And the sun shone out overhead : 

For there was the flower I wore ; 

How well I remember the night ! — 
He had pressed and treasured it all this time. 

My bell-flower, yellow and white. 

Tonight I shall go to the ball, 

And Herbert will surely be there. 
And, — yes, — pinned into the lace at my throat. 

One little white bell I will wear. 

And if he still loves me, why, then 

A talisman fair it shall be ; 
And if he loves not, then, where is the harm? 

The blossom, of course, he'll not see. 



22 



It was friendship, it is love ; 

Where they met I cannot tell. 
Herbert loves me. This I know, 

Love and friendship mingle well, 

Mingle well within my heart. 

I shall always be his friend; 
Will he love me to the last? 

I shall love him to the end. 

To the end. Or long or short 
Be the path our feet must tread, 

May all bitterness and wrath 
Rest in peace among the dead. 



23 



LINES TO REV. T. R. PEED 

To us, not long ago, you told 

How wise men scorned a simple thing ; 

Turned from the water, pure and cold, 
That bubbled in a wayside spring. 

Something more wonderful to find. 
And wandered o'er a vast domain ; 

The crystal spring left far behind, 

To quench their thirst they sought in vain. 

We, as a people, thirst. You stand 
Beside the crystal spring of truth. 

To dip and pass with willing hand 
Its waters pure to age and youth. 

May we with willing hearts receive 

The limpid water you dispense ; 
The simple truth may we believe, 

Nor, scorning, at it take offense. 

May you, may we, or strong or weak, 

All comfort, all refreshing find ; 
To this clear fountain ever seek. 

And to it lead the lame and blind. 



24 



LINES WRITTEN FOR THE GOLDEN 

WEDDING OF REV. AND MRS. 

EBEN PEASLEE, 

Feb. i6, 1883 

What is this golden wedding? 
A halting place reached after many years 
Of marching two as one, where man and wife 
May bivouac for a day ; the campfire light, 
Past joys and sorrows call to mind ; clasp hands 
With comrades, and to them recount the march 
Of progress, how the world has changed, or 

worse 
Or better grown ; in fancy live again 
The pleasant early days when cares were few, 
Look into baby eyes, and feel the touch 
Of baby fingers ; kiss the tear-stained cheek, 
Or chide the erring; mend the broken toys. 
And cry again, '' O children, what a noise ! " 

The preacher moves again from place to place. 
He breaks for hungry souls the bread of life. 
The farmer whets his scythe, and other men 
Who think they mow fall to the rear while he. 
With steady arm and strong, lays down a swath 
Three yards and more in width. Committeeman, 
The schoolma'am quakes before him, lest she 

make 
A blunder and his favor lose. In time 
Of war, rise daily prayers to God for those 
Who heed their country's call. And some are 

not! 
The ranks are broken; hearts are crushed and 

sore, 
The hot tears fall for those who come no more. 



25 



What Is this golden wedding? 
A halting place, but not the final rest — 
Not ended is the march. The vast unknown 
Mist-shrouded lies before ; what it may be 
God knows, and if the way be long or short. 
Day after day his penetrating light 
The next step shineth on and maketh plain. 
Assembled comrades here kind wishes bring. 
And hope that these their friends may all things 

find 
Conducive to their joy. When mustered out. 
May Christ the Great Commander say, " Well 

done! 
The good fight ye have fought; now ends the 

strife ; 
Rest, peace, to you I give, and endless life." 

The day is waning and the twilight falls ; 
The drum is beating. Hark, the Captain calls, 
" Lo, I am with you alway ; halt no more ; 
Fall into line. March on, I go before." 



THE HARVEST 

FOR THE HARVEST CONCERT, OCT., 1884 

We meet tonight to render thanks 

Unto the Lord of Heaven, 
For all the tokens of his love 

That He to us has given; 
Throughout the year has He been near. 
With love our hearts and homes to cheer. 



26 



The early and the latter rain 

Have fallen in their season ; 
Though frequent frosts have touched the vales 

We all have still good reason 
Our songs to raise in grateful praise, 
For blessings in unnumbered ways. 

We praise Him for the nightly dews, 

And for the sunshine golden ; 
That tempest, pestilence, and death 

From us have been withholden. 
In toil and rest have we been blest, 
And earth has yielded her bequest. 

The products of the hill and plain, 

And gardens all around us. 
More plainly show than we can tell 

The mercies that surround us. 
We here behold the story told 
In vivid shades of red and gold. 

The harvest has been gathered in 
By hands both strong and willing. 

We thank the Lord for all good things 
Our barns and cellars filling. 

Their hymns of praise the old may raise ; 

The young can trill their sweetest lays. 

But oh, the harvest of the soul ! 

That let us be reviewing: 
In all the peaceful summer days 

What have our hearts been doing? 
Oh, do we know and dare we show 
The fruits that we have tried to grow? 



27 



And can we bring our ripened sheaves 
To Him who knows our weakness, 

And say, " Dear Lord, behold our love. 
Long-suffering and meekness ; 

We sowed in tears, we toiled with fears. 
But now the ripened grain appears " ? 

But if it be the fruits of sin 

Our hearts tonight are showing, 

If through the sunshine and the rain 
They have been slowly growing, — 

If fruits of sin be garnered in, 

We have decay and death within. 

What is the harvest of the soul ? 

What fruits have we for keeping? 
Have we our sheaves of golden grain, 

Or weeds have we been reaping? 
Are greed, lust, strife, and envy rife. 
Or have we everlasting life? 



ROCKS BRIDGE 

Dedicated, without permission, to certain cor- 
respondents who aired their notions in city 
papers. 

And they talk of discontinuing the Rocks bridge, 

did you say? 
There's no travel in that section ; it is going to 

decay ? 
" It will tumble on some passing boat " with a 

tremendous splash. 
And the ladies will be fainting when they hear 

the awful crash ? 



3§ 



" There's the Groveland bridge," you tell us, 

" four miles off, and all we need 
In this thinly settled region, this old village gone 

to seed. 
And the Rocks bridge is a nuisance, 'tis not 

needed any more." 
But you think we need another to connect the 

Bradford shore. 

" Cannot afford a new one here," why, the bare 

thought makes you sigh ; 
" For the place is unimportant, and the taxes now 

too high. 
And the people of the city could not bear the great 

expense ; 
Essex county surely would not." And you call 

that common sense ! 

Yet the villagers pay taxes for some blessings 
not used here : 

The police force, pavements, sewers, and the gas- 
light bright and clear ; 

For the bridges and the high school we can pay 
and not complain. 

Thankful for our country favors while we bear 
the city name. 

Tear it down? A bridge was built here almost 

ninety years ago; 
It was needed by our fathers in a time we deem 

so slow; 
Oh, with pride they looked upon it, longest o'er 

the Merrimack, 
And shall we who boast of progress in a fast age 

backward track? 



29 



Couldn't we bring back the red men; give up 
chloroform and steam ; 

In a gondola, slow-drifting, take an easy trip 
down stream ; 

Vote the telephone a nuisance, throw machinery- 
aside ; 

Let the scanty gown of homespun deck the mod- 
ern blushing bride ? 

Two and twenty years the first bridge stood the- 
sweep of time and tide ; 

Then the springtime rains descended on the hills 
and valleys wide; 

Heavy rains the deep snow melted, rills and 
brooks a torrent poured 

Down the hillsides to the valley, where the swell- 
ing river roared. 

Roared and plunged the mighty torrent ; like an 

earthquake was the crash 
Of the bridge of ice upbreaking, heaving, piling 

with a clash 
Heard for miles. Great masses drifted onward, 

and the angry tide 
Leaped its banks and swept resistless down the 

vale on either side. 

And the bridge went down before the flood, a 
broken, shapeless mass ; 

Tossing, whirling toward the ocean did the frag- 
ments quickly pass. 

Then another bridge, and stronger, spanned the 
stream from shore to shore ; 

It has stood the tide and tempest half a century 
and more. 



30 



Some strange scenes the bridge has witnessed, 
future chronicles will tell ; 

Morse fulfilled his own prediction : bleeding, dy- 
ing, there he fell, 

Hast'ning to obey the signal, as the schooner 
blew its horn. 

Waking up the sleeping echoes on that bright 
September morn. 

They will speak of one a-weary, in the twilight 

of the mind, 
Leaping down into the current, hoping there 

sweet rest to find ; 
Of the oars in sunlight flashing, of the arms so 

strong and brave, 
Bearing back the almost lifeless, saving from 

a watery grave. 

Wandered often here the poet Whittier, then 
young and strong ; 

Of " the river's steel-blue crescent " he has told 
us in his song ; 

Of the bridge and " gray abutment," where the 
" idle shad-net dries," 

How " the tollman in his cobbler's stall sits smok- 
ing with closed eyes." 

Here have wandered happy lovers in the shim- 
mering moonlight, 

Gazing oi¥ into the distance, seeing visions fair 
and bright ; 

Only fair — no black clouds lower in the lover's 
golden west, 

For his future bringeth treasures, looking for- 
ward he is blest. 



31 



Why, a hundred teams and more would cross the 

old bridge every day, 
And because we need a new one you would take 

it all away, 
When the work of reconstruction is progressing 

fast and far : 
Why, the cost you should have counted sooner! 

'tis too late you are ! 

For the dredgemen and the divers are a-working 
with their might, 

And the iron and the timber high are piled in 
open sight. 

Why not try to take from out the year the much- 
needed month of June? 

When again you take your fiddle twang us out a 
better tune. 
June 29, i( 



LINES IN MEMORY OF W. H. L. OF 
RYE, N. H. 

His work is done, we sadly said, 

As we heard him numbered with the dead., 

Hands, heart, and brain can do no more ; 
He is resting on the other shore. 

Not far away, but yet unseen. 
For a heavy mist lies dark between 

This side and that ; but yet not far 

Is the land where " many mansions " are. 

Ours is the loss, his is the gain ; 
We sorrow, but he is free from pain. 



32 



Sweet rest be his in endless day, 
And ours to labor, to trust, and pray. 

His work is done, we thought and said, 
As we sadly named him with the dead. 

His work is done? Ah, no; ah, no; 
It is going on, — God wills it so. 

We feel it in our souls today. 

We know death carried not that away. 

His life well spent, each day complete, 
Has given to us its fragrance sweet. 

His prayers, his counsels, dealings just. 
They will not crumble and turn to dust. 

His humble walk with God we know 
Death has no power to overthrow. 

Because our hearts are faint and sore 
Shall we exclaim that his work is o'er? 

Nay ; with us it doth still abide. 
Though he has passed to the other side. 

Passed on ! O depth of grief and woe ! 

We had not dreamed that he first would go 

Beyond the tide. So well, so strong. 
We thought he would linger with us long. 

We miss him more than we can tell, 
And our hearts sometimes almost rebel 

Against the stroke that fell so soon, 
That smote him in life's fair afternoon. 



33 



But hush ! rebellious thoughts he still ! 
He is beyond the power of ill. 

And we are selfish ; God knows best, 
And he gives to his beloved rest. 



AN AUTUMN DAY 

Like the smile of a shy maiden comes the rosy 

flush of dawn, 
Slowly, slowly from the eastward in the crisp 

autumnal morn ; 
And the silver star to westward shines but dimly 

through the gray. 
While the mist upon the lowland thinner grows 

and fades away, 
Vanishes before the glory of a perfect harvest 

day. 

Soft the air, subdued the sunshine, light the 
touch of balmy breeze ; 

Scarcely can you hear it whisper as it passes 
through the trees. 

Now and then a bright leaf flutters, falls in silence 
to the ground ; 

Even hickories and acorns that are dropping all 
around 

Fall among the grass and brambles with a far- 
off, muffled sound. 

Chick-a-dee-dee-dee comes sweetly from that 
twisted apple tree ; 

From the maple, farther, fainter, hear it ; chick-a- 
dee-dee-dee. 

From among the hazel blossoms, where the 
stream creeps slowly by. 



34 



Thickly strewn with beech leaves golden, still 

more faint, a low reply, 
Then above us chick-a-dee-dee rings the music 

clear and high. 

Perched among the fragrant branches of the 

apple orchard there 
Is the hale and thrifty farmer picking Baldwins 

red and fair ; 
Cautiously he reaches upward, carefully from 

branches tall. 
One by one he takes the apples until he has 

gathered all. 
One by one, — as come the moments to the great 

and to the small. 

Yonder in the barn sits grandsire husking out 

the yellow corn ; 
Smilingly he fills the basket ; although aged, not 

forlorn, 
For his thoughts are backward roaming, he is 

once again a boy 
In his father's lowly cottage. Retrospection 

gives him joy. 
For the long-gone days of childhood are the days 

without alloy. 

You can hear the cricket army chirping, chirping 

in the grass ; 
Hear the hoarse cry of a raven, see its shadow 

quickly pass. 
And the children ! If you listen you will hear 

them shout and call 
To each other, in the distance, boys and girls and 

squirrels, all 
Frisk about upon the hillsides, while the walnuts 

round them fall. 



35 



Now the cows come slowly homeward, low the 

sun sinks in the west, 
And yon crescent brighter growing tells us nature 

seeks her rest. 
Oh, these peaceful days of autumn, all too soon 

they slip away; 
Soon will howl the blasts of winter, soon the 

skies be cold and gray. 
Let us gather in our harvest, while the golden 

moments stay. 

There are other treasures waiting, like the apples 
on the bough ; 

Let us reach a little higher, let us take our bless- 
ings now; 

We should not sit idly waiting for the precious 
fruit to fall, 

And expect the corn and pumpkins to roll home- 
ward at our call ; 

Nor should we, when wanting chestnuts, let the 
squirrels take them all. 



SILVER BELLS 

For the Huenty- fifth anniversary of the marriage 
of Mr. and Mrs. Elias H. Perkins of Hamp- 
ton, N. H., Nov. 19, 1888 

Do you hear a sound of music? 

Low it sinks, then loudly swells, 
Clear upon the air of evening ; 

'Tis the melody of bells : 
Singing, ringing, keeping time ; 
Silver bells, how sweet their chime ! 



36 



Louder, clearer they are pealing, 

" Welcome friends of groom and bride. 

With a joyful purpose bidding 
Welcome to their own fireside : 

Merrily they chant and ring, 

Cheerily they chime and sing. 

They are wakening the echoes, 

Memories of bygone years ; 
They are calling back the loved ones, 

They are mingling smiles and tears. 
Slowly, softly, tolls the bell ; 
Tenderly it says, " Farewell." 

Now we hear them slowly chanting 

Of our blessings in disguise ; 
Of the stars that gleam and twinkle 

Though we see but clouded skies : 
Chanting of the light divine 
That doth on our pathway shine. 

And again we hear them telling 

Of a faith that will not fail. 
Of a strength that shall be given, 

Of an arm that shall prevail 
O'er the foes that hide within, 
And shall conquer death and sin. 

They are sounding out kind wishes 
From all friends and kindred dear. 

For a long and happy future 
For the happy couple here. — 

All in harmony sublime 

Mav their bells forever chime. 



37 



LINES IN MEMORY OF L. M. D. 

While walking in shadows of on-coming night, 
A little before us she passed from our sight. 

We reached out our hands for the touch of her 

own, 
We clasped but the mists, — we were walking 

alone. 

She was gone, she was lost! we sought her in 

vain. 
Crushed down to the earth with our burden of 

pain, 

We groped for her foot-prints while tears blind- 
ing, hot, 

Fell thick as we called her, — she answered us 
not. 

Looking up we beheld, through the darkness afar, 
A faint ray of light like the gleam of a star. 

It brightened and shone through the gloom of 

the night, 
And gladdened our hearts with its glorious light. 

It comforted, strengthened, and helped us to rise. 
It drew our sad thoughts from the earth to the 
skies. 

Fair light, from the beautiful city of love! 
The hope of a meeting beyond and above. 



38 



IN HAYING TIME 

I am a farmer hale and strong, 
I work in clover all day long ; 
When dews fall softly down at night, 
When summer days are long and bright, 
When sings the bobolink for me. 
My clover fields are fair to see. 

'Tis then I drive my steeds about 
The lots of clover tall and stout, 
To music of the mower's click: 
Rick-a-tic-tic, tic-tic-tic tic; 
Thick, fragrant cuts I leave behind, 
Sometimes a hornet's nest I find. 

Mv sons, gay fellows, Sam and Jim, 
With scythes the ragged edges trim ; 
Their swaths they spread with song and jest, 
John with the tedder turns the rest ; 
While I, through clover red and thick, 
Keep up a rattling ric-tic-tic. 

My good wife likes the sound to hear, 

And when the dinner hour draws near, 

She often in the doorway stands 

And beckons to me with her hands : 

Dear hands ! dear wife, whom there I see ! 

Dear home ! there's rest and peace for me. 

Ah ! there she stands. This way her face 
Is turned, to see how small a space 
I have to cut. As 'round and 'round 
The patch I drive, she hears the sound, 
The mower's merry rapid click, 
Among the clover, rick-tic-tic. 



39 



When jane, my little girl, was sick, 
She'd listen for the rick-tic-tic ; 
And '' Where does father mow today ? " 
Or " Father's coming home " she'd say. 
And every day some clover bloom 
I carried in to scent her room. 

And when the little lassie died, 

I laid a fragrant bunch beside 

The fair, white face. She could not see ! 

But it was comforting to me. 

'Twas years ago, but still I miss 

Her noonday prattle — good-night kiss. 

They talk of perfumes, costly, rare. 
But oh, what can with this compare, 
This breath of clover newly mown? 
No monarch on his gilded throne 
Can purchase fragrance half so sweet 
As clover crushed beneath my feet. 

Rick-a-tick-tic-tic, the task is done ; 
Afar it gleameth in the sun, 
My field of clover, level, sweet. 
May all my tasks be thus complete, 
And may my life a fragrance shed 
That shall remain when I am dead. 



AT THE GRAVE OF WHITTIER 
Oct., 1892 

Fresh-turfed the long and narrow mound, 
With crimson woodbine twined around, 
The homelike blossoms sweet and fair, 
And fading garlands resting there. 



40 



Here all is silence, save the faint, 
Low murmur of the leaves, whose plaint 
Seems softly sighing overhead, — 
A lamentation for the dead? 

Ah, no; a chant of holy peace, 
Of grateful love that must increase. 
As songs immortal, truths sublime. 
Shall echo down the shores of time. 

A chant victorious and grand, 
Outswelling o'er his native land. 
Where man with nature shall unite 
To sound the triumph of the right. 

And I this tribute fain would pay 

Unto Pentucket's Bard today — 

He being dead yet speaketh ; this, 

Tho' tinged with pain, holds much of bliss. 

He speaketh yet in w^ords that cheer 
The weary traveler, when drear 
His pathway, when the clouds of night 
Obscure the skies, shut out the light. 

He speaketh yet brave words and plain. 
In years of life without a stain, 
In simple faith, intensely strong. 
That brooks no trifling with the wrong. 

He sings in silence to the heart, 
And all discordant sounds depart ; 
He speaketh yet in tender strain: 
Sing on, O earth ! the glad refrain. 



41 



MOLLY 

" Woman ? — that in the homespun gown, 
A man's old pahn-leaf hat tied down, 
Broomstick cane and kerchief gay? 
That is a scarecrow, I should say. 
Walking away this lovely morn. 
Just escaped from a field of corn." 

Woman, surely ! Look at her eyes ! 

Lightning darts in lowering skies ! 

Tough old hide and a lonesome tooth, 

Hands that might have been washed in youth. 

If e'er she had one; wrinkled, bent. 

Has Endor's witch to you been sent? 

That is Molly. She lives alone, 

Down at the Neck. Not much is known 

About her youth or middle life ; 

They moved to town, John and his wife. 

In eighteen-forty. He is dead, — 

Died of heart disease, it is said. 

Molly the widow, gray old crone, 
Lives in that low brown house alone. 
Would you enter, look at her room ? 
Here in the corner stands the broom. 
Hemlock branches tied to a stick, 
Seldom used, though the dirt be thick. 

Sooty fireplace and smutty crane. 
Poor old kettle with smirch and stain. 
Old tin pail where the tea was " biled," 
Chair with a dozen cushions piled, 
Bed in one corner, low and small. 
Clock in another, slim and tall. 



42 



Tables and chests and boxes stand 
About the room on ev'ry hand ; 
On and behind them Molly flings 
All of her broken plates and things : 
Pitchers and skillets, bowls and mugs, 
Shattered bottles and castoff jugs. 

Cobwebs long from the ceiling swing, 
Cobwebs thick to the windows cling; 
Sage and catnip in bunches tied. 
Years and years have they hung and dried 
Heaps of rubbish you here may scan : 
Old jaw-teeth and a warming-pan. 

Molly will charm the tooth that aches, 
Though to look at her fingers makes 
One a-tremble and loath to choose 
Whether to let her or refuse. 
Open your mouth, now shut your eyes. 
And on your tooth her finger lies. 

Rocking her body to and fro. 
Witch-like mutterings grum and low, 
Though you may long to bite and squirm, 
Molly will hold her finger firm 
Until your nose and eyes are red. 
Until the charm has all been said. 

Molly is glad we came today. 
Rising, now, we would go away ; 
Slowly she sways, and slowly sings. 
And from some hiding place she brings 
A miniature for us to see, — 
A man who looks scarce twenty-three. 



43 



We dare not question, so we gaze, 
His handsome face and hair we praise ; 
We reach, at length, the cottage door; 
Her bony hands are waving o'er 
Our heads. Again she mutters low, — 
A blessing? We will take it so. 



The tides and years both came and went, 

And Molly lived in fierce content^ 

Alone, unloved, in grim unrest. 

Her secrets locked within her breast; 

Her privilege the coast to scan, 

From old Whale's Back to far Cape Ann, 

She saw each dismal stranded wreck 

That beat against the rocky neck. 

She must have loved the wondrous light 
That gleamed across the darkest night: 
White Island's true, revolving star, 
One loyal friend who could not mar 
With near approach her wretched peace, 
As rude boys, who were bade to " cease 
Their pranks." On them she vent her ire 
In cruel oaths and curses dire. 

She could not brook life's modern ways. 

But lived the old Colonial days 

Until the last ; and then she died. 

As she had lived, in bitter pride. 

With this request : " When I shall die 

Send me away, that I may lie 

With childhood friends ;" and, as she willed, 

Her neighbors saw the wish fulfilled. 



44 



But, ere she died, they overturned 
Her junkshop;, and the rubbish burned. 
With shrieks and howls poor Molly saw 
Her room reduced to " Heaven's first law." 
Fiercely she fought the four strong men 
Who dared to purify her den. 
With misty darkness all about, 
At ninety-two her lamp went out. 

They sought and found, — not hidden gold^ 

But letters which her secret told: 

How Molly, in the bloom of life, 

Had almost been a happy wife ; 

Her gowns prepared, her garments frilled. 

Her chest with homemade linen filled. 

Then jilted in a heartless way 

A few hours ere the marriage day. 

Half-crazed and reckless she had tried 

Her sorrow from the world to hide. 

She met a captain's lovesick son, 

And they, ill-mated, were made one. 

He was a traveled, polished sot. 

His wealthy friends esteemed her not; 

And, destitute of love and truth. 

They wrecked the hopes and joys of youth. 

The life that might have been made fair 
They lived in discord and despair: 
Without forbearance, and the will 
To cherish good and conquer ill. 
Persistently would they shut out 
The music that was all about. 
Unwise they lived and foolish died. 
The victims of ill-will and pride. 



45 



Still stands the house ; the breakers roar 
Against the rocky eastern shore; 
Receding, solemnly they say, 
" They're passed away, all passed away." 
Now o'er the blue there comes a light. 
It turns and shines, now red, now white ; 
It says, '' Life is not wholly vain, 
We may find comfort for each pain." 



46 



ON THE WAY 

Life is brief. 
Whatever you do, be cheerful and brave, 
God gives us sunhght this side of the grave. 

Look for hght. 
Look and enjoy, take what comfort you may. 
Receive and impart something helpful each day. 

Light and shade 
Each other succeed. Let hurricanes burst, 
Never despair. Make the best of the worst. 

Storms will pass. 
Though many and fierce be the tumults to quell, 
Strength lies in repose : rest often and well. 

Time is swift. 
One cannot do all things ; choose what is fit. 
There's much we call work 'twere well to omit. 

Watch and pray. 
Our strength is weakness, we stumble and fall ; 
God's right arm uplifts us, He hears when we 
call. 

Trust in Him. 
Be patient in helping those who are down, 
He who overcometh weareth the crown. 

At the end 
Lay down thy burden, thy sorrows shall cease. 
Enter the gate of the City of Peace. 



47 



OLD-TIME ROSES 

They have blossomed, the low, straggling roses 

That ran in the old garden bed ; 
They are dearer to me than all others. 

The old-fashioned rose of deep red. 
Oh, I welcome the dear old-time roses, 

I longed for their crimson and gold ; 
And the exquisite buds, rich and fragrant, 

I wanted once more to behold. 

They recall the bright days of my childhood, 

And joys that will come nevermore. 
For I gathered each June the sweet blossoms 

That grew by the brown farmhouse door ; — 
And my mother still stands in the doorway, 

And smiles on her rude, noisy band, 
As the roses half-blown and half-shattered 

We snatch from the bush for her hand. 

I remember the neat, roomy kitchen. 

And mother's own favorite place ; 
I can see by the wide-open window 

Her chair, and her beautiful face. 
As I come up the path from the schoolhouse. 

And pause at the threshold again. 
With a cluster of rosebuds beside her 

She sits with her sewing, as then. 

Now I enter again the dear homestead. 
To stand by the old rocking-chair, 

And she turns with a kind word of greeting. 
And tenderly smooths out my hair. 



48 



Oh, the dcHcate touch of her fingers 

Had power to soothe and restrain, 
And her smile of rare sweetness could comfort 

Our sorrows and lessen our pain. 

It is sad that our roses nmst wither, 

That all our bright visions must fade, 
And our hopes, like the fast-falling petals, 

In shadowy silence be laid. 
Oh, the roses bloom on in the garden, 

They fill with their perfume the air, 
And the buds by the brown farmhouse doorstep 

Are dainty and faultlessly fair. 

But the children have grown, they are scattered, 

And father and mother no more 
In their easy chairs sit by the window. 

Or rest on the green near the door ; 
They are gone, and I muse in the twilight, 

On joys that will come nevermore. 
While in fancy I pluck the old roses 

For mother, who smiles as of yore. 



ROCKS VILLAGE AND HER CHURCH 

Written for the seventy-fifth anniversary of the 
recognition of the Second Baptist Church of 
Haverhill, January i, i8^y 

In a corner of a comely town, 
A quiet village nestles down 
Among her fair, encircling hills. 
With deep ravines, where sparkling rills 
From many a living spring flovv^ out. 
Through sunny meadows twist about 
To vine-wreathed bowers, arching o'er 
A winding river's western shore, 

49 



A winding river, broad and deep ; 
By Hunting Hill its waters sweep ; 
By pleasant homes and fertile fields, 
Where nature rich abundance yields 
To those who toil. It onward flows 
By cellars old, where, lonely, grows 
The faithful lilac, as of yore 
It blossomed by the farmhouse door; 

Where woodbines clamber up the bank, 
And berry-vines grow wild and rank ; 
Then by a grass-grown twelve-rod way, 
A wharf, unused, left to decay. 
Within deserted garden beds 
The stately lilies bow their heads ; 
Of those who trod these intervales, 
The closed gentian tells no tales. 

A road now wanders down the hill. 

That once began at Peaslee's mill, 

And ended at the ferry old ; 

'Twas " Goodman Ayer's cartway," we're told. 

Where, then, were builded vessels strong. 

Was heard the merry workman's song ; 

A gilded sign then swung before 

The tavern's hospitable door. 

A cemetery lone and still, 

A garrison upon the hill ; 

A massive bridge, a toll-house small, 

A flagstaff and an engine hall ; 

With roads that cross and turn about, 

Where houses straggle in and out — 

This is the village of today. 

As one in passing through might say. 



50 



As grandma in her corner sits, 

A-dreaming, while she slowly knits, 

So sits the village ; with a sigh 

She dreams of life in days gone by. 

When she was center of a trade 

Where goods were sought and bargams made 

When stores were stocked, and shelves were lull 

Of garments made of honest wool. 

Where, from the inland country town. 
The farmer brought his produce down 
To barter for, perchance, a suit, 
A warm pea-jacket or surtout. 
Oh ! traffic here was lively then. 
The shops were full of busy men ; 
Large cattle-droves were stabled here, 
Of lack of work there was no fear. 

Almost incredible it seems! 

The street was full of passing teams : 

Great loads of firewood oxen-drawn. 

Whose drivers woke the early morn ; 

The echoes coming from afar, ^, 

Of " Haw ! " and " Gee ! " and Get up, Star ! 

With salt-hav loads they plodded back 

Across the frozen Merrimack. 

And, then, adown the old Back Lane, 
Rode giants of the hill and plam 
From distant forests — pine and oak. 
Felled by the sturdy woodman's stroke ; 
Thence rafted on the ebbing tide 
To ship-vards near the ocean side. 
Their destined mission to fulfill, 
Through storm or sunshine, good or ill. 



51 



The church, at first a feeble few, 
Soon into grand proportions grew; 
Her house of worship on the hill 
The people came from far to fill. 
On Sunday morn, with holy zeal, 
They heard the pastor's long appeal, 
Nor did he then to empty pews 
Proclaim the blessed gospel news. 

But, in the greater world outside. 
New industries were multiplied ; 
So, to the regions round about 
Her strong and noble sons went out. 
In other fields to work and pray. 
'Twas thus the good times passed away. 
Her influence^ that once was great. 
Beyond the line of town and state. 

Declined, diminished, till we see 

Five churches where one used to be. 

In narrowed field, with members few, 

This mother still her work must do. 

The old were cheered, the young were taught. 

The weak were helped, the erring sought. 

Her trials great, with courage true. 

The faithful church has struggled through. 

The sons who from the village went 
To her their offerings have sent ; 
The loving heart, the willing hand. 
Have often cheered the little band : 
And, through the darkness, day by day, 
Her God has led her all the way ; 
His Presence has gone on before. 
Five years, a decade, and threescore. 



52 



Then let our earnest prayers ascend 
For His direction to the end. 
Let songs of gratitude arise 
For blessings of the earth and skies, 
For common comforts, and the pain 
That works for our eternal gain ; 
And unto Him all praise be given. 
For joys of earth and hope of Heaven. 

Long live Rocks Village, quaint and old! 
Well may her history be told 
In song and story ; well may she 
Proud of her early record be. 
And while the river blue and deep 
Shall by her vales and hillsides sweep, 
May peace and plenty here be found. 
And love to God and man abound. 



53 



TO MISS R. I. DAVIS 



DECEMBER I5, 

Not seventy years ! How can it be ? 
Suppose you say you're sixty-three? 
Nay, make it fifty, more or less. 
What need that you today confess 

How many summers, fair and green, 
Or snowy winters, you have seen? 
What need a backward path to trace, 
Or Sorrow's sombre form embrace? 

Brood not o'er other long-gone years. 
Recall not now their sighs and tears ; 
Let faith's bright evening star arise 
And deem them blessings in disguise. 

The present has its favors rare; 
Then, trusting in a Father's care. 
In this year's closing pantomime, 
Give but a nod to fleeting Time ; 

Then carry on the work begun. 
Let each day's task be nobly done. 
Lay down the burdens that you may, 
And count the mercies of today. 

So will your joy and hope increase, 
So may each birthday bring you peace. 
May friends be true, and God be near. 
And perfect love cast out all fear. 



54 



A RETROSPECT 

Written for the Reunion of the Peastee kindred, 
Aui^ust, ipoj. 

Shall we sing of the days of old ? 

Shall we tell of struggles past? 
Of sturdy men with courage bold, 

In a country new and vast, 

Who builded the log-cabin rude, 

A home for the wife and child, 
In the terrible solitude 

Of the forest dense and wild? 

Where wolves through the wilderness howled 
When the night wind niade its moan, 

And the dark, stealthy savage prowled 
About the settlement lone? 

Where horrors awoke them at night, 

And dangers beset by day? 
They had to be brave in the fight 

To conquer the foes in the way. 

'Twas a desolate life and bare ; 

But with grateful hearts they wrought. 
They accepted the scanty fare. 

Yet a larger blessing sought. 

To worship their God in their way. 
They came to this far, new^ land ; 

They purposed His word to obey. 

This stout-hearted, strong- vvilled band. 

The Book was to guide them along 
(Not many of them could read; 



55 

LofC. 



But the preacher was wise and strong, 
And held them up to his creed). 

No papers had they, and few books ; 

And some learned men could write, 
The others by cross or by crooks 

Signed names by the candles' light. 

The sunshine was theirs and fresh air, 
And water pure from the rill. 

Flowers blossoming ev'ry where. 
And the moonlight white and still. 

And silence, far-reaching and deep! 

And space for thought to expand. 
The conscience this trust gave to keep, 

To do first the duty at hand. 

They lived undisturbed by the jar 

And rattle of passing train. 
Or screaming, on-rushing car. 

No steamboats were then on the main. 

No " head-on collision " had then 
Made hundreds to shriek and groan. 

Disasters now common to men 
To them were wholly unknown. 

Of the country, nothing they knew 
Beyond and outside their coast, 

They had but a limited view 

Of its wealth ; nor could they boast 

Of wonders of mountain and park, 
The millions its mines would yield; 

Of caverns unmeasured and dark. 
Its breadth of prairie and field. 



56 



No prophet so wise as to plan 

What the centuries would show : 

The complex inventions of man ; 
The gifts that wealth would bestow ; 

The progress of science and art, 
Of labor and skill well paid ; 

But, unknowing, they did their part, 
And gave to the plan their aid. 

The truth they determined to seek ; 

For the right they bravely fought. 
They patiently strengthened the weak ; 

The good of the whole they sought. 

Thus wisely they builded, and sure. 
With no concession to wrong, 

A government long to endure, 
A nation valiant and strong. 

The work they accomplished we praise ; 

They did what they found to do. 
We make them the theme of our lays ; 

We honor the good and the true. 

As far as they followed the Lord, 
May we in their footsteps tread ; 

May the light of His blessed Word 
O'er the path of life be shed. 

Alas for the people that turns 
Aside from the righteous way! 

But happy the nation that learns 
The voice of God to obey. 

Then let us remember to praise 
Their leader, our Guide and King, 

When we talk of the olden days, 
When of trials past we sing. 



57 



HYMN 

That I should sometimes toil in vain, 
That I should often suffer pain, 

That dark my way should be ; 
That I should learn to take defeat. 
The work I choose seem incomplete, 

May be the best for me. 

For life is sweet, and friends are dear. 
If all were light and beauty here, 

If all were joy and love, 
If true friends only we should meet, 
And gems were sparkling at our feet, 

We should not look above. 

While holding to the best of earth 

We miss some things of greater worth. 

And see not, as we might. 
The glories of the better land : 
God's way we do not understand. 

Nor walk we in the light. 

To keep us from alluring sin 
Our way He often hedges in. 

That we may watch and pray. 
Lest memory should bring regret. 
Lest we His wondrous love forget 

And from His presence stray. 



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UBRARY OF CONGRESS 

016 117 838 » 




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